


The Plague

by SaraHerbertWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Gen, M/M, Plague, everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraHerbertWatson/pseuds/SaraHerbertWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A virus has taken over the world; one that takes away your ability to hear, see, speak, and think before it finally takes your life. These are London's final days, told from within the walls of 221b Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2013 - I thought I'd post it here.

Nobody knew how it started or when it came, but everyone knew it when it had arrived.

John hated saying it was a plague, but that’s just what it was – the plague of the new age. The twenty-first century thought that its technology could protect itself from such a thing, but they were all wrong; they all were being continuously proven wrong with each new victim that appeared. It was airborne – no one was safe.

At first they called it a flu – something that could be cured, something that would go away in a few days. But then people started dying. Soon enough this mystery plague was sweeping the world and overtook the front page of every newspaper that was still in print, and the papers were littered with the names of the deceased. Sherlock had barely cracked a smile when they saw Anderson’s name had made the list.

People boarded up their homes. Those brave enough to go outside wore masks and gloves, barely letting skin show even though it was late June. Sherlock and John went out very rarely – only for the cases that reached a ten, they had decided. The crime rates went up but none of them were really case-worthy. It was just the panic of being in the midst of the end of the world. Murder-suicides were on an almost unnatural high, performed by people who thought they were saving their victims from the pain they were about to endure. Assisted suicides were also popular, helping out the people who couldn’t do it themselves. They had left the flat all of three times since the outbreak, and almost never without the other.

The last time Sherlock went out by himself, John had gotten a phone call – at first he thought it was Lestrade, until he saw Molly Hooper’s name on the caller ID.

“Hello, Molly?”

“John – oh John, it’s terrible –” Molly cried. John’s blood ran cold.

“Molly? Molly what’s wrong?” he asked, putting on his best army doctor tone, even though he already knew.

“I – I have it. The Virus – John –” she sobbed into his ear. The government hadn’t given it a real name – it was the illness that soon would wipe out humanity; there was no reason to give it a name.

“Oh, Christ,” John breathed, surprisingly still shocked. He knew it would strike one of his friends – in fact he would’ve thought it would’ve already – but it still struck him, deep. “Molly – Molly, it’s going to be okay –”

“No it won’t, John,” Molly cried. “I have a week,” she whispered.

The symptoms were simple enough – the first day coughing, aching, and vomiting, the second a swollen throat and hoarse voice, and from there it would escalate until day seven – until they were deaf, blind, mute, and their mind a scattered mess. John shook his head – shaking away the thought of Molly like that, lying on her pink sofa with no one but her cat to keep her company.

“I’m so sorry, Molly,” John apologized as Sherlock came in from his meeting with Mycroft and took off his surgical mask. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

“No – I – Tell Sherlock, would you? That I said goodbye?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” John promised, glancing at Sherlock, who was watching him as he took off his jacket.

“I’m actually glad you picked up; I don’t think I could tell him myself,” she said before bursting into tears again.

“I know, I understand,” John said, nodding even though Molly couldn’t see it.

“Good-goodbye, John,” Molly said finally.

“Goodbye, Molly,” John said, and she hung up the phone as she burst into sobs again. John slowly hung up the phone, himself, and then looked at Sherlock. “Molly,” he said, though he knew Sherlock already knew.

“What day is she on?” he asked.

“One.”

“She would get her goodbyes in, now,” Sherlock nodded to himself. “Smart of her.”

“Yeah, it is,” John agreed. He stood. “I – I have to make a call,” he said, walking into his room.

Harriet Watson had died two days ago.

…

They had expected Mrs. Hudson from the start – the elderly and the children were weaker to the Virus, and so the government moved them to the hospital. They were surprised that she lasted this long, but still mourned when the hospital called them. A few days later, they saw Sergeant Sally Donovan’s name in the paper, and shortly after that, Lestrade’s.

There was no such thing as crime, anymore. No one dared walk the streets of London, now. The only reason The Sun was still in print was to deliver the names of the deceased.

Sherlock and John knew their last days were among them as Mike Stamford found his way onto the list.

“Is that everyone?” Sherlock asked after John delivered him the news.

“Sarah’s still out there,” John murmured.

“What about the boring teacher?” Sherlock asked as he lay on the sofa, hands together, fingertips to lips. “Jeanette?” he corrected himself.

“A month ago,” John informed him.

“Ah.”

“How’s Mycroft? Since Anthea…?” Sherlock and Mycroft now talked daily over the phone – it was too dangerous for Sherlock to leave the flat, now. Sherlock said it was something about governmental duties, but John knew they were just making sure the other was okay.

“Better,” Sherlock said, getting up.

“Going to call him?”

“Yes,” he said, leaving the room, abandoning his open laptop on the coffee table. With but a moment’s thought John stood up and sat where Sherlock had laid, opened a blank document on Sherlock’s computer, and typed the most cliché sentence he had ever written:

_I know it’s the end of the world, but I love you, Sherlock Holmes, so you better not get this virus or I’ll kill you myself._

He knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door, interrupting his conversation with Mycroft just long enough to say goodnight, and then he went to bed.

The next morning, John was awake first. As he boiled water for his tea he noticed his computer was up and running, even though he distinctly remembered shutting it down before going to bed the night before. He sat down and opened the laptop to find a document open, very similar to the one he had left for Sherlock, only there were five words as opposed to John’s twenty-six:

_Same to you, my love._

And so they were boyfriends for as long as they had left. They took things as slow as one could take them in an apocalypse. In two days they were shagging, and during the time that they weren’t they kissed in passing as they went through their daily routines, checking the newspaper for names they knew (Sarah passed), checking in on Mycroft, making the most of the rations the government had given them.

Everyone knew when the last electrician died, for the power went out shortly after. The Sun stopped printing that day, as well, for obvious reasons. Sherlock and John only used their phones to text Mycroft to make sure he was still alive, and their computers were off-limits in fear of losing battery life. They lit candles around the flat and went over Sherlock’s old case files (the ones he had on paper, at least), and John sat and listened to the stories Sherlock had to tell about each one. Sherlock tried to teach John how to play the violin, but to no avail. They kissed and made love and waited for Mycroft to reply to Sherlock’s texts, and waited for their time to come.

And it did.


	2. Day One

It hit Sherlock first. It crept into their flat like smoke and decided it wasn’t going to bother John just yet, but instead destroy the world’s only consulting detective from the inside out.

John was up early that morning, reading a book when he heard it. The cough that rattled his bones. The cough that marked the beginning of the end.

Today was Sherlock’s first day.

 _“Fuck_  no,” John gasped.  _Not now – not yet –_  he begged with no one in particular as he ran to Sherlock’s room. He tried opening the door but Sherlock had locked it. “No – Sherlock!” John growled, calling his lover’s name.

“I’m fine!” Sherlock coughed. “Just – don’t come in!” he pleaded.

“Sherlock you  _know_  you’re not alright –” John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“But  _you_ are!” Sherlock yelled through the door, sending himself into a round of coughs that sent shivers down John’s spine. Of course he would try this – try to separate himself from John to keep him healthy. But John didn’t care about his own safety.

“Sherlock Holmes I will  _kick this door down_  if you don’t open it  _right now!”_  he ordered, using his best military tone through the lump that was growing in his throat.

“No – John, please –” Sherlock begged, but he heard him backing away from the door.

John swung his leg and broke the lock, opening Sherlock’s door to reveal the detective crumpled on the floor, tears beginning to stream down his face. Sherlock had never shown John that he was afraid of the end, but now that it was here it was obvious that he was more than terrified.

John crossed the room and got onto his knees, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, bringing his head to his chest. He kissed his dark curls and let his own tears fall. They stayed like that until Sherlock had nothing left to cry out, and it was then John helped him stand.

“We need to find a cure for this,” John said as Sherlock composed himself.

“You’re a doctor, John, not a chemist. You wouldn’t even know where to begin -” Sherlock said before coughing.

“I don’t care,” John said, as he led them to the living room, though he knew that Sherlock was right. He rethought his plan as he laid Sherlock down on the sofa. He made his way to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock called as John opened the medicine cabinet and looked through its contents.

“Getting you medicine. I’ve gotta stop this before it stops you.”

When he gathered what he needed, just before he gave the tablets to Sherlock, without warning, he kissed him urgently, pushing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. When they broke apart, Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes.

“Did you just –?” he began, and John nodded.

“Yep,” he replied curtly. “If you’re going, then I’m going with you.”


	3. Day Two

The next day John woke up with no time to run to the loo before puking on the floor. Sherlock couldn’t speak above a whisper. Only a murmur in the back of John’s mind regretted his decision of being so close to Sherlock while he was a victim of the Virus the day before.

The medicine didn’t work, which they both were expecting but didn’t say out loud.

“How are we going to tell Mycroft?” John asked after a coughing fit.

“Bluntly,” Sherlock whispered.

John was the one to send the text, since Sherlock felt like his entire body was on fire. He sent the two carefully-selected words to Sherlock’s brother:

_We’re dying._

Mycroft Holmes never replied.


	4. Day Three

“Tea,” Sherlock ordered, and even in a whisper his voice broke. John, who found that talking made his throat feel worse and took to not speaking when he didn’t absolutely have to, shook his head. “Tea!” Sherlock ordered again, gesturing to his throat. He wanted something to soothe it. John scribbled something on a piece of paper and showed it to his flatmate. Sherlock squinted at it.

“What?” Sherlock asked. John sighed sadly. Sherlock’s eyesight was leaving him, now. John took the paper back to darken the letters, and after a moment more of struggling to read it Sherlock snatched the paper from John’s hands, crumpled it up, and tossed it across the room.

“Why not?” he asked.

“We can’t heat it,” John replied, the words scraping against his throat as they came up and out of his mouth.

Sherlock looked dumbfounded for a moment. His mind was slipping – he had forgotten. After a moment, he realized.

“Right. Nevermind,” he said, trying to act as if his blunder wasn’t connected at all to the Virus.

It was then John leaned across the coffee table and kissed him.

Sherlock was the one who pulled his face away for a moment.

“While we can both speak: I love you, John,” Sherlock said, really pushing himself to get the words out past the pain.

“I love you, too, Sherlock,” John replied.

Those were their last words.


	5. Day Four

John was somewhat glad that Sherlock was now blind. Only somewhat. Now Sherlock couldn’t see John crying for both of them.

They both laid on the sofa, now, kissing each other’s faces and bodies and stroking wherever they could reach.

Sherlock put his hand on John’s cheek, feeling the stubble that grew there, and John almost didn’t catch the tears that were falling due to his own lack of eyesight. He could feel the waves of frustration coming off of Sherlock – he couldn’t see his lover’s face, or speak to him the way he wanted to.

John took Sherlock’s hand from his face and traced Sherlock’s name into his palm with his fingertip. Sherlock then took John’s palm and traced J-O-H-N into his palm.

_I’m here._

I-K-N-O-W

_I love you._

I-K-N-O-W

_It’ll be alright._

Sherlock replied with a kiss.


	6. Day Five

Their flat had become a damn maze. They were both blind as bats, now, and if either of them got up to do anything – even to take a piss – it was like going through an obstacle course. John hated it, and Sherlock did, as well, but John could only tell from Sherlock’s growls of anger – the only noise he could make, now.

John’s mind was losing itself, now – he could just barely begin to map out the flat in his head. He wondered how Sherlock was doing.

_Do you want help getting around?_

N-O

Even with John’s broken mind, he knew what Sherlock was doing. He was trying to still be the independent, functioning detective that he once was. He wanted to be just who he was when they first met. He wanted John to see that he was fine, even though they were both far from it. John wondered how much of Sherlock’s brain power was being dedicated to putting on this facade.

_It’s okay that you’re sick. I don’t think any less of you than I did before. It’s all fine._

After a few moments of thinking of what to say, Sherlock replied.

T-A-N-K-Y-O-V

_I love you, Sherlock._

I-L-O-V-E-J-O-H-N

John felt like crying as he discovered that Sherlock’s mind couldn’t comprehend spelling or proper grammar. A small bit of him also wanted to cry for himself, knowing that this would be him the following day, if not sooner.

…

While Sherlock was napping, John untangled himself from his arms and made his way to the loo. He bumped into the coffee table, sending the dish of apples tumbling to the floor. John whipped his head around to hear if Sherlock had stirred. He hadn’t.

Sherlock Holmes was a light sleeper. Something was wrong.

John went back to his boyfriend and shook him awake. Sherlock’s eyes blinked open, searching and finding nothing at all.

John took his hand and scribbled upon it:

_Don’t move. Let me know if you hear anything._

O-K

John found Sherlock’s ear and snapped his fingers next to it. Sherlock didn’t react at all.

John stood up straight and clapped a few times, as loudly as he could. Still nothing. With a lump in his throat building and his eyes burning, he found his way to the kitchen, found the plates, and smashed them, one after another.

Sherlock was beginning to understand that John was making noises that he couldn’t hear. He clapped his own hands as John sobbed, smashing more and more of their glass dishes.

_NO NO NO. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, NO!_

John fell to his knees, crying out at the pain of the broken glass that were now jutting into his already-aching knees.

When he and Sherlock finally found their way to each other – just in front of the fire place – they tried to wipe away each other’s tears to the best of their abilities.

They never left the floor.


	7. Day Six

John Watson, for the first time in his life, wanted to die. He had no idea how to tell how long he had left, but  _he wanted to die._  He wondered why he and Sherlock hadn’t thought of just shooting each other and saving themselves from this. Perhaps they both collectively thought that that would be giving up.

Sherlock Holmes was only a shell of the man he used to be, so he knew that there wasn’t that much time left for him.

John spent the entire day checking his pulse, and tracing  _I love you_  over and over again onto Sherlock’s palm. He had no idea what Sherlock thought of it, if anything. Could he even feel it? If he did, could he even tell what John was trying to convey?

John lightly brushed his lips against Sherlock’s, and his lips twitched in reply. John knew that that was their last kiss.


	8. Day Seven

Sherlock slept all day. John kept his fingers on Sherlock’s pulse, until, suddenly, he couldn’t feel it anymore.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.


	9. Day Eight

John held onto Sherlock’s hand, looking straight up at the ceiling, seeing nothing, thinking nothing, and waited for his time to come.

And it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. <3


End file.
